


Why Me?

by ClaraxBarton



Series: Thank you fics [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cawclunks!, Deaf Clint Barton, Hawkeye Clint Barton, M/M, MCwho? Clint Barton, Modern Bucky Barnes, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, walking disaster Clint Barton, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-08-10 13:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20136361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Clint Barton has had... a rough life. He just needs a few minutes of sleep, and then everything is going to be okay. Probably.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).

> For GreyishBasia, who is a lovely human AND bought me some coffee. 
> 
> Unbeta'd, but very happily written.

His keys were lost.

Again.

Which, fine, wasn’t a first time occurence. Wasn’t even a first time this  _ month _ occurrence and honestly, Clint needed to just suck it up and install some kind of keypad entry lock on his apartment door because this was getting to be too much.

The spare key wasn’t there, either, because Clint had given it to Kate and Kate was off in California saving the world and living her best gay life with her gorgeous girlfriend and  _ their dog, _ while Clint was…

Not living his best gay life, had no gorgeous girlfriend or boyfriend, was without their dog, and was reaching the end of his rope when it came to saving the world.

It was one thing to spend his days and nights shooting aliens or tracking down underground Nazis or destroying robots and spiders hell-bent on taking over the world. 

It was another thing to be drinking coffee in the park and witness a bunch of skinheads attack a brown-skinned family  _ walking through the park _ . For the third time this month.

And sure, being an Avenger meant all of the other shit was his ordinary - meant Clint had just barely had the energy to drag himself off the Quinjet and stay awake through the debrief of their latest mission before navigating the hellscape of Penn Station during the morning rush hour and falling asleep on the 2 train and the point was, all of that was  _ normal _ and Clint could deal with it.

But this shit? These racist punks who felt their pasty skin and obsession with flags and bullshit manifestos gave them the  _ right _ to do anything other than live under the rock that would hopefully crush them?

This shit was exhausting in a way that breaking bones while fighting aliens never would be.

So, after seventy-eight hours of being awake with only a handful of catnaps and too much espresso, Clint tossed his coffee and waded into the fray and got himself thrown into jail alongside the skinheads - which, fine,  _ good _ if it meant the family, the innocent fucking civilians, made it out with some shitty memories but only a few bruises. 

Nat bailed him out, because of course she did, and she even gave him a lift back to his place in Bed-Stuy. And that… that was fine. It was a relief and it was over and Clint wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep for the rest of his life.

Except he had lost his keys. Again. And his fingers were too swollen from punching wanna be Nazis in the face for him to even attempt to pick the  _ several _ locks on his door. Again.

So Clint hefted his go-bag back across his shoulders and slumped his way back down the stairs and through the lobby and out onto the street and into the alley behind the building. 

And then he stared up at the fire escape ladder that was several feet over his head and contemplated, for way too long, maybe just sleeping on the stained pavement for a few hours until he had the energy to… do anything else. 

But with his luck, Nat would find him or the  _ bratva- _ wannabe tracksuit mafia fucks would find him or, hell, a feral pack of skinheads would stumble across him and he’d probably get all of ten minutes of shut eye before he was back on his feet and wading into another fight.

So. Clint made himself swallow back the  _ not fucking cool _ lump in his throat and toss his bag up onto the first landing and begin the arduous process of pulling down the fire escape ladder.

Eventually, with only a few new cuts and bruises to show for it, Clint was pulling himself up the ladder and onto the first landing. And then looking up with a grimace at the five more ladders he was going to have to climb before he reached  _ his _ landing and would be able to - fucking hopefully - pry open his apartment window without breaking it and then roll onto his couch and sleep for forever. 

By the time Clint finally made it up, his body felt like one massive bruise, and his head was pounding with all of the fury of whiskey and red wine fueled hangover. But he  _ made it _ . And he sat on the landing and fumbled with the window, sliding his fingers just so because he’d intentionally left the window a little unseated in it’s frame for just this fucking reason - because, yes, Natasha, Clint  _ did _ think ahead occassionally and consider the consequences of his dumbassery.

Only, it wasn’t working. The window was stubbornly plumb, stubbornly secure, and… just plain fucking stubborn.

Plus, the lump was back in his throat and his hands were  _ killing _ him and - and Clint really, just fucking  _ really _ , needed to close his eyes for a few minutes and fucking breathe and then he would be able to figure all of this out.

-o-

The smell of coffee woke him up.

The smell of  _ good _ coffee. Rich and dark and complex, with hints of vanilla and something even earthier and - 

And Clint was pretty sure he was dead. Because he had never smelled coffee this good and he wasn’t even sure coffee this good actually  _ existed _ and probably? Probably he had fallen off the fire escape and was in a coma in a dumpster and his brain was soothing him into the afterlife with fanciful coffee smells and -

“Fuck, why me? Please don’t be dead, weird hot guy.”

Clint grimaced and forced his eyes open and - 

Ouch.

Fucking  _ ouch _ when had the sun gotten so fucking bright and why was he in so much fucking pain if he was dead and why did his ears throb around his BTEs so much if he was  _ dead _ and this was the worst deal ever and -

Oh. Okay. Wow. Fair trade.

Staring at Clint from inside an apartment, sturdy window open and leaving nothing between them, was a heavenly coffee wielding… vision. But, unlike  _ Vision _ , this guy was… wow.  _ Wow _ .

His hair was dark, wavy and a little tangled and long, shoved haphazardly and  _ sexily _ towards the left side of his head to reveal a short, soft looking undercut on the other side of his head that was literally begging Clint’s battered fingers to touch it. And his eyes - some color between gray and blue that Steve probably knew the actual name of but just made Clint think about storms and open water and chaos and being swallowed whole. Which, now that Clint was thinking about swallowing, he couldn’t help but focus on vision guy’s mouth, with his dark, plump lips and his dimpled chin and stubbled jaw and  _ fucking hell _ were his cheekbones even legal? Had to be some kind of concealed weapon law the guy was breaking, with bone structure that sharp and breathtaking and -

“You’re even prettier than your coffee,” Clint had to say.

Vision guy’s grip on his coffee mug wavered and his siren eyes widened.

“What?” 

Even his  _ voice _ was beyond perfection - rough and low, scratchy like he had just woken up or just finished sucking dick and Clint was back to looking at his mouth again and hoping that whatever kind of afterlife or coma-fantasy he had found himself in would let him actually feel the press of those lips against him before he died for real or had to face the consequences of all of his shitty life choices. 

And then his brain very politely decided to reboot or join reality or - something. 

Because it oh so helpfully directed Clint’s attention  _ lower _ . 

Vision guy was nearly naked - dressed in only a pair of,  _ thank you spider-monkey aliens or glowy goddess person from Jupiter last week or whoever the fuck was responsible _ , Hawkeye black and purple briefs. Which left all of him - lean, tanned muscles and trail of dark hair down his chest and thick thighs -  _ thicc _ thighs, Clint’s Peter Parker infected brain supplied - and tattoos on full display. 

And the  _ tattoos _ . A target over his heart, the phases of the moon curling around his right side just under his full pec, a geometric outline of a sea turtle low on his left hip, a scrawl of words just under his left clavicle that -

Oh. 

Oh fuck.

That wasn’t a tattoo. 

That was a soul mark. And - 

_ You’re even prettier than your coffee _ .

Clint’s brain had been doing great. Had been working through the pain and making him look and take in everything and now, now the fucking thing oh so helpfully rewinded itself to the first words vision guy had said to him.

_ Fuck, why me? _

The same words that were imprinted onto Clint’s skin, just below his left clavicle. Words that had slowly resolved and grown dark and permanent only days before Clint’s mother and father had died in a car accident. Words that his father had sneered at, that Barney had teased him endlessly over, that Bobbi had laughed at and Natasha had frowned at and soothed her deadly fingers over. Words that - 

Words that vision guy had said to Clint.

“I’m so sorry,” Clint had to say.  _ Had to _ . Because - because the reasons were literally endless.

Vision guy raised his eyebrows and his full lips twitched, curled into a crooked grin that made his eyes crinkle and -

“I’m not.”

-o-

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi wanted more...  
so let there be more
> 
> (and there will be more again I promise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now beta read by the amazing Ro!!!!

Bucky took a sip of coffee and winced.

Cold. 

That was definitely, horribly  _ cold _ .

He glared at the  _ Hawkeye _ travel mug in his hand, bewildered by its betrayal because it was supposed to keep liquids warm for twelve hours and he had  _ just _ topped off the coffee four hours ago, so there was absolutely no reason for it to be cold.

And yet, it was. Almost as if it, like everything else these days, was fucking with him.

He set the mug down, resolutely turned away from the purple and black pattern that  _ had _ to be mocking him, and forced himself to concentrate on the pile of tests he was wading through.

There were days when he honestly didn’t know if being a math teacher was more or less painful than being in the army.

“Barnes, what are you still doing here?”

Bucky looked up at the sound of a familiar voice and saw Velma, one of the science teachers, standing in the doorway of the teachers lounge and looking at him incredulously.

“Working,” he gestured to the pile of tests that were only half graded.

Velma shook her head, setting her short hair to swaying.

“It’s four-thirty on a Friday, you should be getting ready for a hot date or something. Not,” she stepped into the room and looked down at the tests, “grading pre-Algebra tests.”

“Even if I wasn’t grading, there wouldn’t be a hot date lined up for me,” he couldn’t help but point out. At least he didn’t glare at the  _ Hawkeye _ mug while he said it. 

“Oh? Trouble in babeland?” She draped herself over the closest chair and made a production of setting down her bag and positioning her chin in one hand and looking at him. “Tell me all of your troubles.”

Bucky snorted, half-irritated and half-charmed. That was pretty much Velma’s effect, and one of the reasons why he tended to gravitate towards her whenever there was any kind of staff function at the school.

“I don’t have any troubles,” he lied. “Nothing aside from having to get these graded so I can head out to my folks’ house for the weekend.”

“You’re such a good son,” Velma smirked. “But you know you’re not gonna get laid that way.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve been propositioned  _ dozens _ of times on the train out to see them.”

“Ha! Yes, true romance can only be born on the LIRR. I’m sure one of these Friday nights you’ll be riding along and fall right into the lap of your soul mate.”

So maybe Bucky  _ did _ glare at the travel mug this time.

“You watch too many shitty  _ Lifetime _ movies.”

“No, no. I can see it now. He - she - them - you’re an equal opportunity kind of slut, aren’t you? Their soul mark will be something like  _ Fuck the MTA, _ and it’ll be love at first awkward, sweaty stumble.”

“I hate you,” Bucky muttered. 

“Liar. You love me.” She stretched back in her chair. “Everyone does.”

She let him get through all of two tests before nudging Bucky’s leg with the pointy toe of her black boots.

“Hey. You’ve been kinda down lately. Anything wrong?”

_ Just everything _ , he didn’t say. Because as much as he liked Velma, and as much as she actually kinda had him pegged and understood him, he wasn’t comfortable talking about this with her. Hell, he wasn’t really comfortable talking about this with  _ anyone _ .

“I’m fine. Just… rough semester. October doldrums, you know?”

Velma nodded sympathetically, but she didn’t look convinced.

“You want my advice?” she asked.

“No,” Bucky said, but he smirked and she kicked him again.

“Get yourself a pint of ice cream and watch one of those shitty  _ Lifetime _ soulmate movies.”

Bucky shook his head. No way in hell. He felt awful enough without needing to reinforce - yet again - just how much his life was  _ not _ a storybook romance.

“Or go out and get laid.”

He scowled at her.

“I’m not bringing over some random hookup to my parents’ house, Vel.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

“Go to the rando’s house, idiot. Anyway, I’ve got to run. Have fun with your parents, and tell your mom I loved her editorial in the  _ Times _ last week.”

Bucky shook his head.

“Suck up all you want, she’s not going to leave her husband of thirty years for you.”

“A girl can dream,” Velma sighed. She stood up and gathered her bag. “Seriously. Try to have some fun this weekend, or at least relax. Even the kids are commenting on what a grump you’ve been for the last three weeks.”

And with that oh-so-helpful advice, she flounced out of the room and left Bucky alone with his tests and his damn travel mug.

He glared at the mug, but the mug wasn’t really the problem. Was only a  _ symbol _ \- an actual, literal symbol - for Bucky’s problem.

Frustrated with himself, and with Velma, and with - well,  _ everything _ \- Bucky packed up his stuff and decided to finish grading on the train. It would, at least, give him something to do as he suffered through the commute.

-o-

“You look miserable.”

His mother greeted him at the door with a scowl on her face and a glass of wine in one hand.

Bucky would have left, but, well, she wasn’t  _ wrong _ .

So, instead, he stepped over the threshold and into her arms, and tucked his head down against her shoulder while she patted his back with her free hand.

“You broke up with what’s his name, didn’t you?”

How did she just  _ know _ this shit?

Bucky pulled back and looked down at her with a scowl that had absolutely no effect on her.

“Becca told you?” he guessed. His sister didn’t usually crack easily, but whenever Winnifred Barnes looked at you like  _ that _ , you tended to tell her whatever she wanted to know.

“No, dear. Your sister stopped telling me about your relationships years ago.”

That, actually, wasn’t even a little comforting.

Winnifred closed the front door, pulled Bucky’s bag out of his hands and carelessly dropped it on the console table in the entryway, and immediately steered him towards the kitchen, and hopefully, the wine.

“Then how-”

“You’re tired, darling. And you’re doing that… stubble thing I hate so much.”

“Just because  _ you _ hate it-”

“When did you end things?”

Bucky sighed.

“Three weeks ago.”

“Hm.”

There it was - that single sound, not even a real  _ syllable _ , and it was loaded with twenty-seven years of judgement.

“Ma-”

“Oh, no, no. I’m not about to interfere. You’re a grown man, as you’ve told me  _ many times, _ and fully capable of managing his own life, and my concerns and my  _ love _ aren’t welcome when-”

“ _ Ma _ , come on. You didn’t even like him. You don’t even remember his  _ name _ .”

“Of course I remember his name. Mark. And of course I didn’t like him. He wasn’t nearly good enough for you, and he was in finance. You  _ know _ what that means.”

“It means he had buckets of money to shower on our dear Bucky Bear and keep in the lifestyle to which he’d like to become accustomed.”

Both Bucky and Winnifred turned to glare at Becca, Bucky’s younger sister and the middle child of the three Barnes siblings, as she entered the kitchen with a smirk on her face and mischief in her eyes.

“It means that he profits on the work of others, and he has no soul and is motivated purely by greed and ambition,” Winnifred said tartly, like the Marxist she was, and Becca and Bucky exchanged eye rolls because they had heard a variation of this speech for years, ever since Bucky had lost his first tooth and asked why the tooth fairy didn’t leave him any money.

“Mm,” Becca hummed, and poured both herself and Bucky glasses of wine. “So that means you’re  _ not _ upset that I’m not going to Columbia for an MBA, and that I’m taking a year to figure out what I want to do with my life?”

Winnifred sniffed.

“Managing the finances of an NGO is drastically different than working  _ in _ finance, Rebecca Barnes, and you know it. If you were half as smart as you think you are, we wouldn’t still be having this conversation.”

“Here we go. I’m wasting my life and my potential, yadda yadda yadda-”

“Your father and I did not raise you three to shirk your responsibilities to society, Rebecca. Your brother-”

“Joined the army and killed people,” Bucky cut in, because he had been used against Rebecca in just as many arguments as  _ she _ had been used against him, and they had a tacit agreement to throw themselves under the bus if need be, but to never let their mother suggest one or the other of them was some paragon.

“You found your way in the end,” Winnifred shrugged. “You realized your mistake and took a different path, and look at you now.”

“So… what you’re saying is,” Becca nudged Bucky with her shoulder and grinned up at him, “that it’s okay for me to take a year off of school and figure shit out since, you know, Bucky took four years off to go shoot stuff before actually going to college, and I’ve already  _ done _ that.”

“Maybe  _ you _ should join the army,” Bucky suggested.

Becca preened.

“Me? Gosh, Bucket, you think they’d take lil ole me?”

He snorted.

“They took me,” he pointed out.

“Stop it, both of you,” Winnifred commanded. “You know I just want the best for you. For you to be happy and live full, meaningful lives. And if,” she sighed and rolled her eyes to the heavens for a moment before looking back at Becca, “and if that means turning down a spot at Columbia next year to go pursue… whatever it is you want to pursue that  _ isn’t shooting anything _ , then of course your father and I support you.”

Becca grinned and Bucky rolled his eyes at her, but he could practically feel her relief. 

This had been an ongoing argument between Becca and their parents for months now, ever since she had announced, back in June, that she didn’t want to get an MBA, that she didn’t want to go to grad school at  _ all _ and, moreover, had no idea what she wanted to do with her life.

It wasn’t that all of their parents’ hopes were pinned on Becca - both Winnifred and George had more than enough hopes and dreams for Rachel, their youngest child - but they had more or less written Bucky off as a firstborn who had been spoiled too much and they were lucky he was even alive after all of his stupid life choices, and Rachel was only sixteen. 

So, naturally, they spent a lot of time and energy focused on Becca’s choices.

Bucky felt guilty about it sometimes, but probably not as often as he should.

“Now,” Winnifred set down her wineglass and started to put the finishing touches on dinner, “James, darling, why are you so miserable?”

-o-

Southold was small, a tiny town on the far northeastern corner of Long Island, and growing up, Bucky had felt like his whole life was constrained by the limits of the coastal town that only really seemed to come alive during tourist seasons. It was one of the reasons he had passed on the three schools that he had been admitted to after high school and joined the army - it was an escape, both from the sleepy town and from the life his parents had mapped out for him. 

As far as escapes  _ in _ Southold went, though, Bucky had learned at a very young age that the roof of his parents’ Victorian house was the best he could do - climbing out of his bedroom window and crawling along the eaves until he was able to lean against the chimney and stare up at the stars and wonder what the world had in store for him.

Of course, it was an escape that Becca had discovered early on, too, and for more than a decade now, she had been following him up to the roof and crashing his retreats.

Tonight, of course, was no different.

Bucky had managed to get through dinner, had sidestepped all of his mother and father’s vague and pointed questions, and even Rachel’s teasing comments, but there was no running away from Becca.

“So,” she said as she shoved his legs apart and settled her back to his chest and made herself comfortable between his legs, “tell me what the hell is up with you, Bucket.”

He sighed. 

He should have expected this. She was, after all, the person who knew and loved him best in the whole world. That he had kept his mouth shut about it for three weeks was a little crazy, but, well, he hadn’t - still didn’t - really know what to say.

“Why’d you break up with Mark? I thought you liked him. Thought you, you know, were talking about moving in with him in a few months.”

All true, of course. 

Bucky’s whole life had more or less seemed… on track. Or at least on  _ a _ track. But all of that had been before.

“I met my soul mate.”

There. 

He said it.

The words were out there. A bell he couldn’t unring.

“You… Bucky, are you shitting me?” Becca turned around, nearly pitching the both of them off the roof in the process.

“Nope,” he assured her, and closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at her completely shocked expression.

“You, uh… huh. Wow. What… Why- Okay, but what the fuck, Bucky?”

He had to laugh. Because, yeah. 

_ What the fuck _ ?

It had started just like most Sunday mornings. Mark had been out of town, so Bucky had slept in and then made himself coffee and worked on the  _ Times _ crossword while Alpine demanded scritches and the coffee brewed away in the kitchen.

And then he’d poured himself a cup and noticed that there was a body on his fire escape landing.

A body that turned out to be a hot, blond-haired guy who looked like he’d lost a fight with the Russian wanna-be  _ bratva _ thugs who roamed the neighborhood.

A body that turned out to be  _ Hawkeye _ , the actual Avenger, the guy that had maybe been the reason Bucky had wanted to be a sniper in the first place, had maybe even joined the army at all after high school, after that awful day in May when aliens invaded and the Avengers saved the planet.

A body that turned out to be Bucky’s soul mate.

And, for one moment, for one heart-stopping, mind-melting moment, they had looked at each other, the words of Bucky’s soul mark still warm on Hawkeye’s lips, and the rest of the world hadn’t mattered at all.

Because this was it - this was Bucky’s  _ soul mate, _ and how utterly impossible was that? In this day and age? There was something like a one in eighty chance of finding your soul mate these days, and Bucky had long ago written off the possibility of ever finding  _ his _ . Especially growing up under his parents’ roof. Winnifred, a legal scholar of some small renown, wrote off soul mates with the same disdain she treated capitalism and utopian ideals. And George, well, George Barnes had  _ met _ his soul mate, had met her and lost her in a horrible car accident when they were both just college sophomores. So soul mates just weren’t a  _ thing _ in the Barnes household. All of those shitty  _ Lifetime _ movies that Velma watched - that everyone watched - were illicit, were the kind of shit Bucky and Becca had watched at friends’ houses and whispered about up on the roof, under the stars.

But, well, there was a reason the Barneses didn’t talk about soul mates.

“So, he, uh, he said my words, and then he said he was sorry, and I told him that I wasn’t because… because…” Bucky waved a hand, not really able to explain it to her without explaining  _ everything _ to her. “And he just… he said he couldn’t do this, and he just left?”

One minute, Hawkeye, Clint Barton, Bucky’s  _ soul mate, _ had been standing on the landing, and the next he had been scrambling up the ladder and disappearing into the apartment above Bucky’s, and Bucky didn’t know what the fuck he was supposed to do now.

He hadn’t even really intended to break up with Mark. Four days later, Bucky had been at Mark’s place in Manhattan and Mark had his mouth on Bucky’s dick, and Bucky had just blurted it out -  _ I met my soul mate _ . And Mark had said ‘oh’. Had said he’d always thought having a platonic soul mate would be awesome, and Bucky…

Bucky didn’t  _ want _ the bond to be platonic. Not just because it was Hawkeye, but because… because Clint Barton was not  _ Mark, _ and Mark had seen it, in Bucky’s face, in his eyes, and he’d offered to call Bucky a cab and send his stuff over so that Bucky didn’t have to come all the way back to Manhattan again, and… that had been that.

“So… what are you gonna do about it?” Becca asked him.

Bucky sighed and pulled her close, hugging her tight and looking up at the stars.

“I dunno, Becks. I really don’t know.”

-o-

DON’T WORRY THERE WILL BE MORE BECAUSE SOMEONE IS EVIL AND I CAN’T JUST LEAVE THIS STORY ALONE!!!!!!

No, but thank you for wanting more Bobbi and please expect the THIRD installment next week because of course I’m not going to leave things like this!!!

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Clint had no idea why  _ anyone _ would think going on a blind date on Halloween was a good idea.

There was, in his mind, absolutely  _ no way _ it could end well. At all.

Which is why he wasn’t going on a blind date on Halloween.

Natasha was.

And it wasn’t that she couldn’t take care of herself. She so very clearly could take care of herself and the  _ entire world _ that it was the best kind of intimidating. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t use backup on a blind date - especially a blind date on the absolute worst night, of the entire year, to have a blind date.

“Something happened to you on Halloween, didn’t it?” Natasha demanded after Clint pointed out, not for the first time or even the fifth, what a bad night Halloween was for going out with someone for the first time. 

“No,” Clint lied.

They were walking through Manhattan, over to some bar called Valhalla in Hell’s Kitchen, and Natasha was dressed in a red trenchcoat, red broad-brimmed hat, yellow scarf and large dark sunglasses. Her favorite non-combat knee high black boots completed the look. Clint, on the other hand, had decided to dress up as Captain America. Complete with an absolutely  _ horrible _ replica plastic shield that had made Steve physically recoil when Clint showed it off earlier.

“Is it that I’m just that good at telling when you lie or are you really just that bad at lying to me?” Natasha asked him.

Clint sniffed and lifted his chin.

“I’m an amazing liar,” he insisted, even though they both knew it wasn’t true. For his career as a spy, and before that as an assassin and before  _ that _ as a carnie, Clint had relied on overwhelmingly blunt honesty, sarcasm and being vague to get the job done. Lying just wasn’t something he was any good at.

“Mmm,” Natasha responded and looped her arm through his. “Tell me a more convincing lie for why you moved back to the Tower other than ‘my apartment is lonely without Lucky.’”

“My apartment  _ is _ lonely without Lucky,” Clint grumbled. 

“And yet you managed to live there for four months before it became too much.”

“Yep.”

She tilted her sunglasses down just low enough to glare at him. 

“Clint.”

“Natasha.”

He wasn’t getting into it.

He had, by some miracle/Natasha being away on a mission for ten days and then Clint being away on a mission for five days and then Clint being injured and Natasha being on another mission/regularly scheduled things managed to avoid having exactly this conversation with Natasha over the last month.

He should have known that her shrug and easy acceptance of his escort to her date meant that she was planning to ambush him with this.

_ This _ , of course, being the conversation he absolutely would never be ready to have. The conversation involving him admitting that he had found his soul mate and subsequently ran away from him.

For his soul mate’s own good.

For James Buchanan Barnes’ own good.

Clint had, because he was a masochist and cynical and paranoid and a  _ mess _ , looked up the person who rented the apartment below his. And hey, it  _ was _ Clint’s apartment building now, so it was only… slightly less creepy that he ran a background check on his tenants. Tenant. Because none of the other ones were his soul mate so he really couldn’t be bothered to look into them. Though, now that he thought about it, maybe he should?

Clint knew, through that background check and then a little more digging thanks to Friday’s assistance, that James Barnes was a former Army sniper - which likely explained that tattoo - and was now a  _ math _ teacher at a Brooklyn high school and coached the JV baseball team and the Mathletes. He was from Long Island and had two sisters and a scary mother and - 

And he deserved  _ so _ much better than Clint as a soul mate.

“Hey, is there any way to like… switch soul mates?” He asked

Natasha gave him a  _ look _ .

“Why would you ask?”

Clint rolled his shoulders.

“You know… if someone gets stuck with a shitty soul mate, shouldn’t they have a chance to like… roll again or something? Get a do over?”

Her eyes narrowed and drifted from his face to his left shoulder, to the hidden soul mark and the words  _ Fuck, why me? _ That she had seen on his body hundreds of times and never questioned.

“Clint -”

“It’s just not really fair, you know? For someone to just get… saddled with someone else like that. They should get another chance.”

“Most people never even meet their soul mates. Most people end up happy and in love with someone who  _ isn’t _ their soul mate,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yeah, but -”

“And the entire  _ point _ of soul mates is that there is something between the two of you that calls to each other and completes you. Or whatever. It doesn’t have to mean anything. There’s no need for anyone to get another chance at  _ another _ soul mate. Surely running away from one is enough for you?”

Clint glared at her.

“I’m not talking about me?”

“Oh no? That was just an entirely random hypothetical?”

“Well - look. Valhalla. We’re here.” Clint pointed, a little too enthusiastically, at the bar across the street.

Natasha’s mouth worked, expression drifting from amused to concerned and back again.

“Anyway. Who are you meeting? How are you gonna know who it is?”

“His name is Matt Murdock. He’s a lawyer.”

“You’re going on a date with a  _ lawyer _ ? Natasha -”

“He intrigues me,” she cut him off. “And he’s going to be dressed as Daredevil.”

Clint opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, decided there was nothing he could say about that, not really, and closed him mouth.

Natasha smirked, held open the door to the bar, and gestured for Clint to proceed her inside.

“Your ass looks great in that costume,” Natasha commented as she followed him.

“Thanks - not as good as Steve’s, but… what are you gonna do?”

“Take compliments?” Natasha suggested and Clint felt his cheeks heat. He glared at her, but she just kept smirking.

“Think there’s more than one Daredevil here?” Clint asked her.

“I’m not entirely sure there will be  _ one _ Daredevil here,” she muttered.

Clint nudged her shoulder.

“You think anyone in their right mind would stand  _ you _ up?”

“He doesn’t know who I am. He thinks I’m Nora Rutan.”

Clint rolled his eyes and she stepped on his foot.

“Ow. Look, your dude is over there.” Clint nodded towards a corner booth, where a man in a red Daredevil costume sat nursing a beer, a slight frown on his face and his attention on the table in front of him.

“Alright. Well. Thanks for walking me here,” Natasha said. “Why don’t you go to the bar and try to buy a drink for Robin Hood at the bar over there? He looks hot and I’m sure he could help you forget all about your soul mate that you’re running away from.”

Before Clint could rebut  _ any _ of that, Natasha was striding across the bar towards her date and Clint was left alone, staring after her with an open mouth.

He watched as she introduced herself, watched Daredevil refocus his attention and offer her a bright smile and Natasha sat down and leaned close with a smile of her own.

With a sigh, happy for her and and envious and… a lot of other things, Clint turned towards the bar.

Robin Hood, as Natasha had pointed out, was indeed hot. And weirdly sitting alone, the stools on either side of his broad shoulders and narrow waist empty. He even had a quiver of arrows and a bow across his back - granted, they appeared to be Nerf Gun arrows and a child’s bow but, still. Clint appreciated the effort. 

And, well, maybe he  _ could _ forget about his soul mate? For just a few minutes.

Impossible, because even as he  _ thought _ it, Clint was remembering the way James’ eyes had crinkled and the smell of his coffee and the way his dark hair had curled wildly over his shoulders and -

And Robin Hood had longish hair, pulled back in a neat braid at the nape of his neck, dark enough that it reminded Clint of James.

He might as well get a beer, Clint reasoned, despondent now. More.

Sliding onto the open left stool beside Robin Hood, Clint signalled to the bartender.

“So,” Clint sucked in a deep breath, “come here often?” He asked Robin Hood.

Robin Hood turned towards him, eyebrows practically climbing into his hair in shock at the awful line and -

And Robin Hood was James Buchanan Barnes.

They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.

“What can I get you?” The bartender interrupted their staring match.

“I,uh, what?” Clint had a hard time looking away from James’s storm siren eyes.

“What do you want to drink?” The bartender, dressed as a pirate and looking a little put out already, even though it was only nine and Clint couldn’t have been the first idiot to get distracted by someone as gorgeous as James.

“Uh,” Clint waved a hand, “whatever he’s having.”

James’s lips twitched, but the bartender shrugged and moved away to grab a pint glass and fill it from one of the dozens of taps.

He pushed a full amber glass in front of Clint and left them alone to continue staring.

Clint had absolutely no idea what to say. At all.

What  _ could _ he say to the soul mate he had run away from five minutes after meeting him?

“I’m the absolute worst,” he rushed to say. “As in, the actual worst. You - I’m - it’s not -”

“I’m Bucky, by the way,” Robin Hood - James -  _ Bucky _ said. He took a sip of beer, leaving his full, dark lips wet and impossible to look away from.

“Clint.”

“I know. I’m a fan.”

That had him blushing.

“I… I’m really sorry. I - this is awful. I’m awful. You know that most people are completely happy to fall in love with someone who isn’t there soul mate, right?”

Bucky’s eyebrows were raised again.

“Are you one of those most people?” He asked, tone even, expression neutral.

Clint swallowed hard.

“I have no fucking idea,” he admitted.

Bucky’s lips curved into a crooked smile, not quite carefree, but not bitter either. He knocked their knees together.

“Me either,” he said.

And for some reason… for some reason, it was easier for Clint to breathe.

“Yeah?”

Bucky nodded.

“Yeah.”

-o-

* * *


End file.
